


Why I Like It Rough (You've Got Me Wondering)

by Ricechex



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricechex/pseuds/Ricechex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the DashCon Author Auction. Prompt by <a href="http://jonnyluvssherlock.tumblr.com/">jonnyluvssherlock</a>, who said:</p><p>John would do anything for Sherlock even cover up or commit a murder.  In a world where Sherlock is the consulting criminal and Moriarty’s the detective John is Sherlock assassin who ends up spending most of his time making sure Sherlock never gets bored.  John thinks of himself as a tool, something Sherlock uses when he needs it.  But John’s about to find out in a world of boredom and people who seem to hate Sherlock John’s the only think Sherlock really likes.  That’s why he keeps him close and doesn’t like John to wander off.  John realizes as Sherlock’s only friend and lover there’s no escape.  Sherlock would kill him before he’d let him leave, and that’s all right with John. Top Sherlock, possessive/obsessive Sherlock, dominate Sherlock, biting/marking, dark Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I Like It Rough (You've Got Me Wondering)

Choices.

It all comes down to choices.

John knows that all too well, as he sits in his uncomfortable plastic chair, fingers laced behind his head, one ankle crossed on the opposite knee, the picture of nonchalance.

He made his choices. He doesn't regret them.

He closes his eyes and waits. _Three more minutes_ , he thinks, because it's not as if they've _actually_ got anything they can hold him on - he made sure of it. So this is all show - bluster and posturing, peacocks strutting their tired plumage over and over again with the hopes that it will entice.

He hums to himself, and waits.

 _Two minutes, forty-nine seconds_ , he thinks as he hears a door. _Not bad, Watson_. He opens his eyes and smiles brightly at Detective Inspector Lestrade, who looks back at him wearily.

"Evening, Detective Inspector." He keeps his tone light, jovial - as though he was here for a visit with an old friend.

Which, in a strange sort of way, he is.

Lestrade sighs as he sits down across the table from John. "Shut up, Watson."

John looks only mildly hurt. "Why, Detective Inspector, you don't sound pleased to see me. And here I thought we'd grown past everything."

Lestrade glares at him. "I know it was you."

John frowns and tilts his head. "What was me?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I'm going to prove it. And then you and Holmes are going to go away for a very, very long time."

John shrugs. "You assume there's going to be evidence against me. But I can assure you, my alibi is completely beyond reproach." He grins then, and leans forward. "Tell me, how _is_ the Mrs. these days?"

Lestrade shoves the table - it catches John in the ribs, hard enough to knock the breath out of him momentarily. He clutches at them, still smiling.

"Fuck you, Watson."

John looks considering. "If you insist, but I can't imagine how _that_ would help your marriage either..."

The knock at the door is followed by it opening again, and John looks over to see Jim Moriarty standing there.

"Lestrade, a word."

John waggles his fingers at him with a smirk. Moriarty ignores him.

Lestrade stands up, hatred burning in his gaze. "I'll be back. Get comfortable."

John nods. "I'm sure I will."

The door closes, and he waits.

 

+++

 

John steps out of the New Scotland Yard offices twenty minutes later, hands in his pockets, whistling a non-sense tune. He hails a cab, hopping into the back and saying, "Baker Street. Double your fare if you get there in seven minutes or less."

Six and a half minutes later, he hands the driver the money and steps out to see 221B in front of him.

It's good to be home.

He steps in, and the noise from the street vanishes. The noise from the flat above, however, is more than he'd anticipated.

Seems Sherlock is bored, or angry. Or both.

He takes the steps two at a time, pausing just as he steps into the sitting room.

Sherlock has his gun - well, one of them; his _favourite_ gun, really - and is shooting the wall. Again. John frowns.

"You're wasting ammunition."

Sherlock turns, gun levelled at John. John looks at it, rolls his eyes, and walks into the kitchen. He can feel the barrel follow him. It is an empty threat.

"Mrs. Hudson will have your head for that."

The gun goes off. John turns back, glaring. There's another hole in the wall their couch is against. He walks over and places a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Give it back, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't look at him. "You left."

John slides his hand down to clasp Sherlock's and the gun. "I had to make sure Lestrade didn't find anything." He slides the gun out of Sherlock's grip, ejecting the magazine and sliding the action back to eject the live round, watching as it bounces along the floor and rolls under his chair.

"He found _you_." Sherlock snarls, turning towards John and grabbing his arms. "He found you and he took you into the station."

John shakes Sherlock's hands off. "Yeah, because _that's_ never happened. Oh no, whatever shall we do?"

Sherlock steps closer, crowding him. "I told you not to go."

John looks up into his eyes. "I remember."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "So why _did_ you?"

John leans in closer, his nose pressed to Sherlock's cheek, their lips almost brushing as he speaks. "Because I wanted to."

Sherlock looks livid, and then John's eyes close as their lips meet, firm and demanding and hard enough to bruise. John smiles into it.

"Was Moriarty there?" Sherlock moves them into the hallway, pressing John against the wall.

"Moran too." John's fingers brush through Sherlock's hair, grabbing and pulling.

"Was he happy to see you?"

John chuckles, breath huffing against Sherlock's neck as they fumble into the bedroom. "Oh, yeah. So happy he almost clocked me one when I said something about how good Moriarty looked between my cross-hairs last week, when they were investigating the dead girl at the cemetary."

Sherlock groans, shoving John down onto the bed. He pulls his shirt off quickly, biting his lower lip as he looks down at John. "You thought he looked... _good_?"

John's eyebrows rise slightly, and he smirks. _Choices_. "He's fucking _edible_ in those Westwood suits."

Sherlock makes a choked sort of sound, fury radiating in the tension of his shoulders. John's smile widens.

"I'm going to make you regret those words."

John licks his lips, pulling off his own shirt and shucking his trousers. "I think, if I had the chance, I'd bind his hands with that silk tie of his, shove him down, and fuck his mouth until he couldn't do anything but scream around my prick and swallow everything I gave him."

That's when Sherlock springs.

John's overwhelmed - he's a fighter, to be sure, but Sherlock is damn near otherworldly. Before he can give even a token protest, Sherlock has his wrists locked in his grip and tamped down to the bed over his head. He snarls at John, and John laughs, because for all that he wants to seem unstable and downright dangerous, John's the only person in the world that isn't afraid of him.

So John laughs when Sherlock glares at him, smiles when he ruts against him and says, "I'm going to fuck those thoughts out of your head." Sherlock may be the dominant partner, but John knows he's the one with the real power.

John's pants are gone now, and Sherlock's as well. He stares up at him and arches his hips up. "Get on with it, then. Until you do, I can tell you all the things I'd do with him."

There's a bottle of lube in Sherlock's hands, and John watches as he slicks up his fingers.

"I think I'd gag him."

Sherlock reaches down, slides his fingers against John's hole, and John squirms and bucks and moans.

"And then I'd-" John gasps as two of Sherlock's fingers slip into him, sudden and a little painful and then _oh yes there_. "-I'd, _fuck_ , I'd... I'd put his knees on my shoulder, reach down and grab his cock, keep my hand loose enough that he couldn't get off."

Sherlock's fingers are twisting and scissoring and bumping his prostate every other thrust, just enough that John gets that electric shock through his prick, and then there's a third finger wiggling into him, and John grinds back down on it.

"Keep going."

John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's pupils blown wide and his skin flushed.

So John keeps going.

"I'd slick him up, push one finger into him, and then a second, and then I'd pull him down onto my cock, make him take it."

Sherlock's rutting against the crease in John's hip, biting his lower lip and spreading his fingers as wide as he can. John bites his lip and groans.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock, I'm ready just-"

Fingers pull out of him quickly, and just as fast Sherlock's cock is there, pushing into him easily. John's legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer, closer, _closer_ , until he feels Sherlock's hips against his arse.

"John..."

His name is little more than a whisper. Sherlock's eyes are closed as he waits a beat, then begins pulling back out slowly, taking control back.

John can fix that.

His arms wrap around Sherlock's shoulders, pull him down. John kisses him passionately, one hand moving up to thread fingers through those ridiculous curls. Sherlock's mouth travels along his jaw and neck, frantic compared to the measured, unhurried thrusts of his hips. John grins, and leans towards Sherlock's ear.

"And then I'd shout your name when I came inside him, and he'd be so fucked out he'd thank me for it."

At that, the thrusts stutter, and Sherlock raises up from where he'd been licking at John's collarbone. John smirks up at him. Sherlock growls, and slams back in, pounding into him with dedication.

John arches as he throws his head back, gasping and moaning, hands scrabbling against Sherlock's back. His fingertips dig in, scratching as they slide down Sherlock's back. Sherlock cries out, head dipping to John's chest. John feels the scrape of teeth against his skin - a question, a tacit request for permission. He pushes against them, and then Sherlock bites him, only just hard enough to make John writhe and babble incoherently as the sensations wash over him.

A moment later, he feels Sherlock's movements go a bit less coordinated, and then a hand wraps around his aching cock, pulling him to completion after a handful of strokes. He clenches around Sherlock as his arms pull him closer, his lips finding Sherlock's and kissing him until he feels Sherlock letting go just after his own release.

Sherlock pulls away, panting and falling against John's chest, boneless and spent. John aches in all the ways he loves, and his hand idly finds its way back into Sherlock's hair, fingers rubbing his scalp in small circles as they catch their breath. John closes his eyes.

Choices. Everything is a choice. With the weight of Sherlock lying on top of him, he can't think of a single one he's made that he'd change.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my second time taking a prompt via author auction, and I really enjoyed doing it. I can't wait for DashCon (I'm already registered, and I have my hotel room reserved, so I will DEFINITELY be there)! Come say hi - I'm on Tumblr at ricechex.tumblr.com, if you wanna pop by - and I wanna meet EVERYONE, so don't be shy!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and thank you, jonnyluvssherlock, for supporting DashCon!
> 
> [ **Title from, "I Like It Rough," by Lady Gaga.** ]


End file.
